Chuck is the author of the published novels: Blackbirds, Mockingbird, Under the Empyrean Sky, Blue Blazes, Double Dead, Bait Dog,Dinocalypse Now, Beyond Dinocalypse and Gods & Monsters: Unclean Spirits. He also the author of the soon-to-be-published novels: The Cormorant, Blightborn (Heartland Book #2), Heartland Book #3, Dinocalypse Forever, Frack You, and The Hellsblood Bride. Also coming soon is his compilation book of writing advice from this very blog: The Kick-Ass Writer, coming from Writers Digest.

He, along with writing partner Lance Weiler, is an alum of the Sundance Film Festival Screenwriter’s Lab (2010). Their short film, Pandemic, showed at the Sundance Film Festival 2011, and their feature film HiM is in development with producers Ted Hope and Anne Carey. Together they co-wrote the digital transmedia drama Collapsus, which was nominated for an International Digital Emmy and a Games 4 Change award.

Chuck has contributed over two million words to the game industry, and was the developer of the popular Hunter: The Vigil game line (White Wolf Game Studios / CCP). He was a frequent contributor to The Escapist, writing about games and pop culture.

Much of his writing advice has been collected in various writing- and storytelling-related e-books.

He currently lives in the forests of Pennsyltucky with wife, two dogs, and tiny human.

He is likely drunk and untrustworthy. This blog is NSFW and probably NSFL.

Chuck Wendig is a novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. This is his blog. He talks a lot about writing. And food. And pop culture. And his kid. He uses lots of naughty language. NSFW. Probably NSFL. Be advised.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Song Shuffle Stories

Some administrative stuff — first, don’t hesitate to run your eyeballs over last week’s challenge, “Revenge Of The The Sub-Genre Mash-Up.” Some very cool and bizarre-o stories there that deserve your unswerving gaze. Second, regarding Blackbloom: Blackbloom is not dead, but I am putting it on hold in order to take a look at some new ways of handling it. Not only were the last two challenges a bit wan in terms of content but my time as of late is busy enough where it’s difficult for me to properly give the challenge the time it deserves. Oh, and I worry that it took the focus off the flash fiction challenges too much by alternating week to week? I don’t know. More on that soon-ish, I hope.

This week’s challenge is based off of music.

Your music, actually.

Go to Your Favorite Music Player. Dig out your digital music collection.

Maybe this is iTunes or Spotify, or use Pandora if you’d rather go that way.

Hit SHUFFLE, then “Play.”

Meaning, let a random song come bubbling up out of nothing.

The title to this song is the title to your story.

Use the song for inspiration, too, if you feel so inclined.

Let’s tighten up the word count a little, too –

You only have 500 words this time.

Once again, the deadline is a week: noon EST on Friday (DUN DUN DUN) the 13th. Any genre will do. Post at your blog or whatever Internet space you’ve carved out, and link here so we can all come gaze at your fictional offerings on the terribleminds altar. Some folks ask what they do if they don’t have a blog? You can post direct to comments here, but that often looks shitty in terms of formatting. You can try Google+ or Tumblr. Or, get an easy Blogspot or WordPress blog on a lark.

This place is dark. “Where am I? How did I get here?” The ground quakes with every question, the vibrations run up my legs and make my body quiver. My feet are slowly moving me towards the epicenter. The vibration is getting stronger, building momentum, while the faintest sound penetrates my ears.

“Who’s there? What do you want from me?” The vibrations grow stronger, drawing my feet forward, each step a sign of submission to an unseen lure. I realize I haven’t opened my mouth once, the questions being in my mind, never being vocalized. The sound grows causing the vibrations to reverberate in my head. My vision is clear but the sound is muffled, as if listening to it at the bottom of a pool. I’m approaching a parking lot. “I know this place. I come here every morning for my coffee.” There are a few cars in the lot and I see movement within them, but still too far to see clearly.

I try to resist, but the tremors grow violent with each attempt, pulsing through my head like too much blood to the brain. My temples ache with the pressure and my feet shuffle ever forward. The sound grows louder and louder as I approach. I hear a voice now. It’s trying to tell me something. I want this to stop. My willpower is slowly draining, making me give in as I begin to tire.

“Please, just stop this!” Dark clouds roll across the sky like ocean waves crashing against one another. The voice is screaming in my head, tearing apart my mind with every pulse. My jaw locks with the tension and I force myself to keep my eyes open. I glance at the parked cars, filled with people. They are holding their hands over their bleeding ears screaming until their throats burn. Their agonized faces stare back in horror then blur with supernaturally fast and erratic motion. Terror fills my mind, feeling like a vice rapidly closing. Blood vessels rupture in my eyes and my vision begins to fade. The vibrations are so strong that I fall to my knees with steady streams of tears rolling down my face laced with crimson. Like a crescendo the voice becomes clear as I drown in the darkness.

“WE EXIST!”

It repeats through my mind in an infinite loop. I feel myself being consumed by the void, like a vast sea of nothingness. I wake screaming to find myself in a bed full of sweat. I run to the light switch on the wall. My nerves are shot and it takes me 20 minutes to calm down.

I lay back down irritated with myself. “What am I fucking twelve?” My body aches and a migraine dance on the edges of my skull. I need caffeine. I take a look outside and the sky is dark and gloomy. “The shitty burnt coffee at the office will have to suffice.”

“Jesus, Sam! Would you shut up already? I can’t type with your jabbering!”

Sam retorts, sulkily. The usual rot: how it’s hardly his fault I lack talent and can’t string a decent sentence. Which leads, invariably to the usual name calling, threats and flying mug – frustrated coup de grace, rah-rah resorting to violence. Not that it helps – he just laughs.

24/7, 365 and the full quarter, Sam talks non-bloody-stop. I had quit my job after the first week – my colleagues freaked out over my seemingly erratic explosions. A few unfortunate fiascos with strangers forced me indoors and my girl split after he conned me into talking dirty (he’s wrong: not all women think it’s hot). That was about 15 years ago. He’s been helpful, however, when it comes to writing. Got ideas coming out of his wazoo, does he. Not that it wasn’t a fight in the beginning – I wanted to be a writer myself and though Sam could help, like an assistant or something but he shot that down fast. Whenever I scratched out a storyline, he tore huge holes in it, critiqued every fucking word (harshly, I might add) until after 5 days on relentless sarcasm, I threw in the pen and I gave up. Sam tells me the story and I type it down. Sometimes he lets me add a detail or two but mostly I’m his scribe. Once I got over the humiliation, I saw the sweet side: he’s got a wild imagination leftover from his carny days and weaves together impossible tales with the help of a posse of unlikely protagonists (like his last: a tin opener). Which guarantees me an interesting time pushing pens and pumping keys. And people seem to go for that sh*t. Had I been the one writing, the readerly public would be wading through be romantic swill about vampires, werewolves and a prepubescent teenager. Up against a psycho “opener” who rips the lids off gangster cans of Campbell’s… well, there no comparison is there? His stories sold and the books bounced across the globe. I became a celebrity. Which was kinda cool, don’t read me wrong, but stuck in this house I hardly enjoyed my fame.

Now, I’m tired. Only so much dictation a man can take in his life before it gives him cranial cramp or carpal tunnel or something depressing. I’ve done my time, put in a good decade plus as penmonkey for this joker.

*

“Feeling lucky, Sam?”

I suck the slick barrel, hammer coldly cocked.

“Jesus, Chuck. Calm down!”

The trigger tingles – I’m tired of talking, typing and taking orders. From a clown. Yeah, it’s probably a bit extreme but I then I always hated the circus.